I hoist myself within these wooden walls
World of those who can no longer on earthly soil crawl
The cigarette parting my mouth lets
Smouldering ash fall on my lips and burn
This smoky high is slowly clearing out
Giving my numb mind time to growl
Let me lie and let me go to jovial gardens
I'm enraged, I can't walk, can't talk, can't
I can't write words, can't think em, can't control myself
I am now living in this world of cannot
In this small little box that I can't knock off
The will of God or the muse of maggots?
Barking dogs and rainstorms commit to me through memory
So does the master playing all his poker aces
Wild memories grow in my backyard and from my armpits
Wavy stickers clinging to my body seek an identity
I need an ambulance, a therapist, and three dozen fire brigades
Don't forget your pitchfork with your twisted tail
You, sent as I was sent, a child with a single brain
Taught how to count and how to count no sins
The only way to stop this sickness from growing is to pretend that it doesn't exist
It is better to let the happy and the sad fade away
And never see what crowns what and when
Than evolve into another cancerous cell
YOU ARE READING
Rhythms From a Quarter Life
PoetryI will die the very moment this poetry collection is complete, not a moment more, not a moment less. Yet, what worries me is not death but never being able to complete this poetry collection. These are the rhythms resonating from a quarter-life.
